Chapter Text
After everything: all the trials they'd been through, all the torment and fear—it was over. The netherbrain was defeated, the Dead Three were a distant memory. For the first time in months, at the end of the world when ash finally stopped raining from the sky, there was peace.
They stood on the dock, covered in dirt and sweat, eyes stinging from tears of relief. Astarion could feel the curls at the back of his neck sticking to his skin from dried blood, the smell of brimstone and brain matter clinging to his armor. He couldn't wait for the showers that awaited them at the Elfsong. Though… he knew the cots would feel much emptier when they back.
Karlach and Wyll had already left for Avernus on borrowed time, and now Lae'zel was talking about facing off against Vlaakith with her people. They'd only just saved the realm, and here she was, ready to fly off and save another.
It was typical, Astarion thought. She was going no matter how hard Shadowheart tried to talk her out of it—a warrior until the very end. He'd actually grown fond of the gith's never-ending scowl. Her imminent departure left him with a sense of melancholy he hadn't expected. Maybe they'd see each other again one day, though he knew the prospect was unlikely.
At the dock's edge, Gale stood alone, staring into the Chionthar. Astarion broke away from the others to stand by his side, but the wizard didn't seem to notice him. Gale's brow was furrowed, something pensive and strained in his eyes as they traced the lapping waters from one end of the bay to the other.
"Darling?" Astarion murmured.
Gale blinked, broken from his thoughts. He glanced over in somewhat of a daze, and then let out a half-hearted chuckle. "Apologies, I'm… I guess my mind was elsewhere."
He reached for Astarion's hand and linked their fingers together. Astarion brought his knuckles to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the skin. "You almost look as though you're thinking of jumping in," he smirked. "I'm not going to have to fish you out, am I?"
Gale chuckled softly. "No, nothing of the sort." Then, his smile dimmed. He was silent as he looked out into the river.
"You're thinking about the Crown, aren't you?" Astarion asked quietly.
"It's right there," Gale whispered. "Right under the waves. If I could just…"
"Gods," Astarion turned to him. "You're worse than Lae'zel. Five seconds after saving the world, and you're already looking for another excuse to get yourself killed. Can you just—" He sighed, shaking his head. "Can you just enjoy this moment? We're alive. I can't believe I even get to say that, but we're alive."
Gale's shoulders slumped. He dropped his gaze and nodded. "Of course, I… I'm sorry. You're right."
"I always am."
Gale couldn't help but smile at that. He reached forward, resting his hand on Astarion's cheek. The pale sky painted them in pinks, and Astarion couldn't help but think about how pretty a color it looked on his wizard.
"Forgive me," Gale murmured, "I suppose it's a difficult thing to let go. Foolish of me to focus on such things when I could be thinking of something better." He gave Astarion a small smile. "Like you, for instance. A much lovelier image, to be sure."
Astarion couldn't help but chuckle. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Gale's and closing his eyes. They both desperately needed a bath and at least a tenday's worth of sleep, but for now, all Astarion wanted to do was remember this moment, to feel every last bit of it.
"We've actually done it," he whispered, almost reverently. "… Can I make a rather saccharine request?"
Gale stroked his cheek. "Of course."
"Kiss me?"
He could feel the way his wizard grinned. Gale pulled him forward. Their lips brushed—and it was everything he'd ever wanted.
All of it was suddenly worth it. Cazador. The tadpoles. The netherbrain. Just to be able to stand here and know that their lives were just beginning—that they were safe. Astarion clutched onto Gale and never ever wanted to let him go.
And then, as cruel fate would have it, he felt the sun touch his skin.
It was shocking what only a few months could undo. Two hundred years spent skulking around the shadows had hardened Astarion to his reality. He no longer ached for the morning rays or the warmth of the air when the sun was at its peak, but two months of blissful protection made the absence of it startling. It felt like a knife to the gut, being forced back into hiding again, as if he'd been turned all over again.
Things were different this time around, however. He had his freedom. He wasn't alone. The Elfsong felt rather empty now that mostly everyone had gone their separate ways, but Gale and Shadowheart remained by his side, through everything, as they'd promised. Before his departure, Halsin had given him a sending stone, and even though they were limited to speaking once a day, the short messages had become a warm comfort.
What was supposed to be a temporary stay at the tavern eventually became something more permanent. The innkeepers were generous enough to allow them to stay as long as they needed—after all, no one was keen on kicking out the adventurers that saved Baldur's Gate from becoming a hole in the ground.
Through victory, however, the city was still worse for wear. Jaheira and Minsc visited when they weren't out helping with the reconstruction efforts, though their stays were often short. Shadowheart threw herself into assisting the Gate's local healers as the injured rose into the hundreds. More than once, she’d come home barely coherent from exhaustion.
And then, of course, there was the feeding issue. No matter how hard Astarion tried to stomach it, Gale's blood was still poison. Shadowheart allowed him feed on her whenever she could, but between aiding in the city's recovery and using every last one of her resources doing so, she hardly had the spells left to speed up her own recovery. So on nights when her blood was no longer an option, Astarion was forced to stalk the streets for stray cats, dogs, and any other animals he could get his hands on. It reminded him a bit too much of life under Cazador, being forced to beg for scraps.
Gale had always said that he'd return to Waterdeep after they defeated the netherbrain, but he'd yet to make good on that promise. With Astarion's affliction still uncured, he could hardly think of anything else. The sunwalker ring he'd tracked down turned out to be nothing more than a cheap knock-off; every spell, scroll, and enchantment was merely a temporary solution, lasting anywhere from an hour to minutes; and the sun-blocking apparel they'd attempted at crafting was often too stuffy and difficult to move around in.
Gale spent more and more time at Sourcerer's Sundries looking for answers. He and Rolan worked tirelessly—researching, experimenting, even contacting local artificers in an attempt to craft some sort of shadow-enchanted cloak, all to no avail.
Astarion had grown listless as the days continued. Some days he got out of bed, some days he didn't. Gale was often gone during the day, even as his research crept into the early hours of the night, so the hours seemed to stretch without end.
It was all beginning to seem rather hopeless.
One night, around three in the morning, the door flew open with a loud bang. Gale practically stumbled into the Elfsong, the disheveled hair and dark circles under his eyes making him look much more haggard than usual.
Astarion sat up, startled. "Gale??"
Shadowheart sat up in her cot, squinting groggily at the commotion. "What in the hells…?"
Gale muttered a few scattered apologies to her as he hastily kneeled in front of Astarion, brown eyes blown wide. "I—I think we've figured it out," he blurted out. "I can't believe we never— It was right under our noses this whole time, and we didn't—we never even considered the possibility! All this time—!"
Astarion held his hands out, brow furrowed in confusion. "Darling, slow down, what are you talking about—?"
Gale quickly took his hands, squeezing them in his own. "Rolan and I, we-we've spent the last three days delving into research on the undead. We've gone over history books and—and magic tomes and some egregiously esoteric research papers on necromantic minutiae that, frankly, could have used another editor—"
"Gale," Astarion huffed.
"Right—sorry—right," Gale dug into his satchel, sifting through the contents until he produced a scroll. Astarion could feel the small swell of magic it released in the air.
"This is a scroll of true resurrection," Gale said reverently, holding it carefully as if it were a priceless artifact. "It can bring back any creature that has been dead for no longer than two hundred years—vamprism included, we’ve discovered. And I've had it this whole time—right here. I never even considered the possibility it could be used for you!”
Astarion stared at him in alarm, his mind racing. He'd taken Gale to the site where he'd been buried a few days after they'd finally put an end to Cazador Szarr. That gravestone was the only reason he knew what his death date even was, the only way he could track how old he was as the years of his ensalvement dragged on. Next year would have been exactly one-hundred ninety-eight years since his death.
Shadowheart was standing now, wide-awake with a hand to her chest. "Moonmaiden's grace…"
Astarion shook his head slightly, disbelieving. "But, that's… how could…? Would that even work—?"
"It would! I mean— in theory, it would," Gale rushed out. "We can't be sure until we've tried it, but you're, by all definitions, dead." He let out a huff of frazzled laughter. "Don't you think it's worth a shot?"
Astarion covered his own mouth then, shocking himself with the fresh tears that sprang to his eyes. They'd gone through enough false hopes to know that just because something sounded plausible, did not mean it would work.
"Don't…" he began, voice strained and harsh, "don't you dare get my hopes up. Not now."
Gale reached up, taking Astarion's face in both hands. His eyes were wide, searching "I… I think this could work, Astarion. Please, please, let's just try."
Astarion let out a bubble of shaky laughter. "As if I'm going to say, 'no, let's wait a little longer'. Gods." He sniffled and wiped at his nose. "If you don't use it right now, I'm using it myself."
Gale grinned. He leaned forward and kissed Astarion deeply. When he pulled away, he wiped at the elf's tears and kissed his cheeks, too, for good measure. Astarion laughed lightly and pushed at his chest.
"Darling, we can celebrate after the spell brings back my stunningly good looks," he said with a huff, though his adoring gaze betrayed him somewhat. "Gods, I can't wait to see my reflection again. I can't wait to drink wine again. Promise me that's the first thing we'll do."
Shadowheart snorted softly. "Reminder that it's three in the morning…"
"Oh, buzz off, you," Astarion spat, though it was laced with warmth. "You're coming with us, whether you like it or not."
Shadowheart's sigh was accompanied by a smile and a pat on his shoulder. "I suppose your beating heart would be cause for celebration, wouldn't it? Fine. One drink."
Astarion chuckled, wiping his eyes. Gale stepped back, his hands trembling, Astarion noted. Which was peculiar, given his lover's hands hardly ever trembled. Even in the worst of danger, he kept calm and focused—fingers requiring steadiness in order to perform complex incantations. Now, however, he hesitated, reading the spell again and again, as if making sure that he got the words right.
"Love," Astarion said after a moment. "Are you ready?"
Gale's throat bobbed as he swallowed.
"Yes, I just…" he finally looked at him. "Astarion, if this doesn't work…"
"Please don't," Astarion said, steeling himself. "Don't give me the speech."
"But—"
"Gale, just… just do it. If it's a dud, I want to get it over with."
Gale gave him a small smile, but he nodded. "Of course... I have a good feeling about this one, though."
Astarion tried to fight his own smile, but he simply couldn't. He huffed out a tearful laugh and then waved his hands in the air. "Okay, okay. No more of that. Let's do it already."
Gale grinned and then glanced back down at the scroll. He read over it again, before taking a steadying breath and holding out his hand. Then, he looked to Astarion one last time.
"Ready?"
Astarion swallowed lightly, but nodded. "Ready."
Baldur's Gate was lovely this time of year. Just warm enough to leave your coat at home and just cold enough to bask in the sunlight, that sweet spot of mild and perfect come mid Springtide.
So, of course, Astarion had spent the whole bloody day indoors. Ugh.
Pinely Fickleheart was having an outdoor charity luncheon, one that Astarion had quite badly wanted to go to—but was forced to miss thanks to a rescheduled hearing that morning. Why no one knew how to show up to their appointments in a timely manner was beyond him. Honestly, they ought to be kicked from the magistrate's office if they planned on wasting his and everyone else's time.
Astarion made his way down the grand hallway, his pointed wingtip shoes echoing with sharp clacks on the floor. He passed by the large arched windows with intricate glass frames that made fractals splinter across the beige granite. Rather pretty, he'd thought when he was first anointed, but the luster had long since worn off.
The building was thrumming with activity—it always was on a day such as this. Secretaries, officials, and court members all fluttering about from one auditorium to the next. One of the more soft-spoken apprentices nearly collided with him while juggling a stack of dossiers.
"A-Apologies, Magistrate Ancunin," he gave an awkward bow before shambling off.
Astarion rolled his eyes before continuing on his way. The fresh blood this season were so inadequate it made his temples ache. Half of them could hardly look him in the eye, let alone get their work done properly.
Thankfully, he was finally headed home and could put all of this out of his mind. The whole debacle from this evening was another migraine and a half. Yet another Gur had been caught stealing in the Upper City—from one of Astarion's acquaintances, no less! It was the third time this month the Gur had been caught red-handed, and twice that it was the exact same culprit. Thus, he'd taken a personal interest in the case.
He'd decided to make an example out of the man. Sending him to the Seatower for the rest of his days seemed rather reasonable; perhaps it would discourage the other vagrants from sticking their noses in places they didn't belong. Astarion would be lying if he said it didn't give him a bit of gleeful satisfaction at the look on the Gur's face as he gave his ruling.
"Heading out for the day, Mr. Ancunin?" Magistrate Thornsbury asked. He appeared to be conversing with the half-elf girl who sat at the reception desk—Astarion could never remember her name.
"Finally wrapping up what was supposed to have been wrapped a week ago. So yes, I'll be taking my leave." He made his way to the front doors, tossing a half-hearted wave behind him. "If Darkus is looking for me, tell him to fuck off. Ta-ta."
And then he was outside. The city was bustling with the evening rush—horses, carriages, men and women with linked arms walking down the promenade. The restaurant across the street filled the air with the smell of seared rothé steak and butter sauce—a favorite of his father's, though Astarion was partial to their silverfin ceviche. A group of men in mage robes passed by, trailed closely by floating bags and suitcases that followed them around like ducklings.
Astarion scoffed. Wizards.
He made his way down the cobblestone street as the evening sun began to set. The sky was a dusky orange, full of pink clouds that were slowly darkening the longer he walked. His normal route took him up Blackraven Street, but the weather was nice, and he didn't quite feel like getting home yet.
He took the scenic route instead, cutting through Wendserpent to walk along the bay. Astarion was in no mood to be surrounded by people and welcomed the solitude that the docks would provide.
The gulls cawed high above, the breeze gentle off the water. Astarion took a deep breath, that unmistakable Chionthar mineral-rich smell wafting in the air. He used to find it cloying, but it had grown on him in recent years. Astarion closed his eyes, savoring the peace. The sun was nearly set now, and the lanterns near the streets began flickering on, enchanted to burn at precisely 6pm.
It occurred to Astarion, quite suddenly, that he could hear the sounds of footsteps behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed a figure walking along the docks as well. This sparked a twinge of annoyance that he didn't have the place to himself tonight, but he supposed the bay wasn't a private area. Besides, the man was at a considerable enough distance that he was hardly a bother.
Astarion ignored him and kept on.
As he walked, however, another man appeared ahead, standing directly in Astarion's path. Gods, the docks were unusually busy tonight. On a typical evening, the area was often completely deserted. Astarion found his good mood souring. He nearly paused, however, when he realized that the man was staring directly at him. He wasn't moving out of the way, either. Something suddenly felt… off.
Astarion glanced behind him only to find that the man was much closer than before, eyes practically boring holes into him. Astarion quickly looked away, keeping his eyes down as he turned to move back to the well-lit streets—but before he could take another step, a third man stepped out from the shadows, blocking his escape.
He was completely surrounded. Astarion's feet came to a stop.
Alright. He knew what was happening here, now. He was getting mugged. Bollocks.
Astarion slowly held up his hands, eyes darting between the men. "Alright, now. This doesn't have to get messy."
The man from behind chuckled, drawing Astarion's attention. He had a thick scar over one eye that trailed upwards into his hair. He looked familiar. Why did he look familiar? "Doesn't it?"
"There's gold in my bag," Astarion said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "Take it. It's yours."
"Oh, we will," the tall one said. "We'll take it right off your corpse, Magistrate."
Cold dread shot through Astarion like a bolt of lightning, his eyes widening in horror. "What—?"
A blinding punch sent Astarion stumbling backwards. He grasped for his face, only for the second blow to knock him to the cobblestones. Astarion hit the ground hard, hands scraping as he tried to catch his fall and stand, only for the Gur to kick him back down. It was all he could do to shield his face as they descended upon him.
A kick to his gut knocked the air out of him, another to his head made his vision blur. One of the men grabbed a fistful of his hair. "This is for Callum," he hissed. Then, he smashed his head into the stones once, twice, three times—agony rocketing through him with each blow.
Astarion could feel his jaw dislocate, his tongue shredded from biting down on it. His eyes had already begun to swell shut, but now he could barely breathe through the blood in his nose and mouth. Astarion groaned wetly against the pavement, his vision going in and out as he struggled to stay conscious.
The taller man knelt down, dagger in hand. He grabbed Astarion by his curls and yanked his head back. "A life for a life—right, Magistrate?"
Through the bitter taste of copper and dirt, Astarion tried to beg, to say please, but his mouth was too damaged to form the words. He wasn't sure it would have mattered, anyway.
Just as he finished the thought, the man brought his mouth to Astarion's ear and hissed, "The Gur do not forgive."
In a flash of red, the blade sliced his throat.
Astarion's mind went blank. Beyond the initial shock of pain, he could feel the blood gushing from the wound. The Gur dropped his head to the ground and then began searching through his pack. He stared out at the water, gasping and choking as his life poured out into the cracks of the cobblestone.
A loud clatter sounded out further along the docks. The men cursed under their breaths, dropped everything, and took off into the night. Astarion was left sputtering, bleeding, alone.
He could feel his body growing heavier, his vision darkening. Distantly, he realized that he was dying.
"You poor thing," he heard from above him. He couldn't turn to look, no matter how much he wanted to. A pair of red eyes suddenly swam around his vision, piercing through the darkness. "Do you need help, little pet?"
Astarion couldn't speak, couldn't even nod. His fingers twitched towards the figure, a strangled sound leaving his lips.
"Don't worry," the voice soothed. He felt a clawed hand petting through his blood-stained curls. "You're mine now, boy. And I take very good care of what’s mine."
He felt the figure lean over his body, something pierced his neck, and then—
—Astarion lurched forward with a horrid cry.
He was gasping for air, panic thrumming in his veins. His hands shot to his throat, scrambling to close the wound, only to find that there was nothing there. He pulled his trembling hands away, staring at them in confusion and horror. There was no blood. Where was the blood?
"Astarion?"
He flinched violently and backed himself into a— a wall? There was a wall behind him? But he was just—
"Are you alright??" Two hands reached forward and grasped his shoulders.
He immediately shielded his face, his mind still firing off in a thousand panicked directions. "Stop! Stop!"
The hands quickly retreated.
"Astarion, it's alright! It's alright, you're safe," the voice said. "Look at me. Please, love, just look at me."
Shakily, Astarion lowered his hands. He met the eye of a bearded man—a human, by the roundness of his ears. His long, brown hair had been half tied back and he wore purple wizard robes that looked a bit crumpled and slept in. There was another woman in the room as well—a half-elf with long, white hair and a scar that ran across her nose.
Then, Astarion took note of the space around him. He was indoors, somewhere in… where in the hells was he? Some drab-looking community house? When he glanced down at his hands again, he realized with a start that even his clothes were completely different.
"Is he alright? Did it work?" She asked.
The bearded man leaned forward, examining Astarion with such severity that made him want to snap at him to get away, were he not so rattled.
Then, the man's face fell. He let out a breath of disbelief and covered his mouth. Astarion finally mustered the cognizance to try to force his mouth to work, but was cut off when the human grasped the elf's face in his trembling hands. "Astarion, your… your eyes are green. Your eyes are green."
Astarion stared at him, his bewilderment beginning to overshadow his fear. "I… um… yes?" He managed.
The man let out a sharp cry of elation and looked to the woman, his face nothing short of joyous. "He's warm, Shadowheart, he's—"
The woman covered her mouth. She dropped to her knees beside them both and put her hand to his Astarion's neck, as if she had the right to do such a thing. "Oh my gods... it worked! It actually—"
Astarion rapidly swatted their hands away, in no mood to be petted all over by strangers, especially now. "Don't touch me."
The human and the half-elf shrank back in surprise.
"What in the Nine Hells is going on??" Astarion cried. "Where am I?"
The man stared at him, a small line forming in his brow. He tilted his head. "Where…? You're in the Elfsong… You're safe. You're home."
Astarion had to blink a moment before he huffed out an incredulous laugh. "The… The Elfsong? That piss-stained hole in the wall is not my home."
"Well, I—I mean…" The human stammered. "Perhaps it's not the nicest residence in the world, but our hosts have been very gracious—"
"Astarion," the woman said. "Do you feel… different?"
Different? Was she joking? He was living and breathing despite having his face beaten in mere moments ago. Astarion absently reached up to feel over his neck and was shocked to find that it was utterly unscarred. "I… I suppose I feel… normal? Considering the circumstances."
"The… circumstances?" The woman asked.
"Well, I'm not choking on my own blood anymore, so I'd say that's an improvement."
The human blinked at this. "Choking—? What?"
"What are you…?" The woman tilted her head. "Do you know what we just did to you?"
Astarion's eyes darted between them, perplexed by the question. What they did to him…?
That's when he noticed the Selûnite pendant around her neck. She was a cleric… had she healed him? He tried to piece together a scenario that made any sort of sense, but the details barely added up. Had they found him? If so, why did they drag him across the city? How did they do such a thing? Why wasn't he in Harborside getting treatment? He wasn't sure exactly how severe his injuries had been, but he knew for a fact that a simple healing potion would not have done a thing to mend him back together.
"Are you… healers?" he asked.
The bearded man's mouth dropped open. "Healers—? What? No," he began to reach for him, but thought better of it and awkwardly closed his fist instead. "Astarion, it's me. Gale."
Astarion didn't recognize his name or his face in the slightest, but the way he was looking at him gave him pause.
The half-elf sat back on her heels, her expression shifting to concern. "Gale..."
"I… I don't…" Astarion shook his head slightly, racking his brain. "I'm sorry… have we met before?"
The man's face fell completely. He looked as though he'd been struck, his eyes searching Astarion's face. "No," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "No, no, this is… this isn't right. How can you not—?"
"Look," Astarion huffed, growing impatient. "I'm sorry if my mind is a little fuzzier than normal, but I nearly died less than ten minutes ago! Can somebody please just give me some bloody answers??"
The woman held her hands up. "Astarion, I know this is… confusing, but please just bear with us. We're trying to understand. What's the last thing you remember?"
Astarion sighed in frustration, but sat back as he tried to recall what happened.
"I… I was walking home from the magistrate's office when three men attacked me on the docks. Gur. I believe they were… unhappy with a ruling I'd made that day." His expression grew tight around the edges as the details came flooding to focus. "One of them… um, slit my throat. I had a moment where I thought I was going to die. Then there was a different man with… red eyes…? He was saying something but I couldn't quite understand it… I couldn't make out his face, either. Then I woke up," he gestured around vaguely, "… here. That's it."
The Selûnite looked slightly horrified. "You don't remember anything else?"
"Wh— No," Astarion shrugged defensively. "Should I?"
"Oh Gods," the man said, covering his face. His voice sounded strained and shaken. "Gods above…"
The woman's hand went to her mouth. "Gale... the spell—"
"I know," he said, barely audible. "I know."
"What?" Astarion pressed. "What spell?"
But the human said nothing else. The cleric just stared at him, looking terribly lost. And as Astarion looked between them, the pit in his stomach only grew deeper and deeper.
"What…" he uttered. "What happened to me?"